


the city's asleep and the world is mine

by brophigenia



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, M/M, Sibling Incest, and just an excuse to get thor into bed with my boys, and they don't fuck, because it's thor and loki, but they're adopted, joseph kavinsky is loki pass it on, liiiiiike i guess this counts as, this is filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: Proko is not sure what K says, when he leans into Thor’s space daringly. Later, he won’t even dare to ask. Whatever it is, it makes the god, theAvenger,startle with sudden sharpness, eyes going fromeasygoing camaraderietoanimalistic consideration.It’s inhumanely hot.(AKA the one where K is Loki, Thor is at a club in NYC, and there are sexy results. Don't @ me.)





	the city's asleep and the world is mine

**Author's Note:**

> Do I have a lot of shameful lust for Chris Hemsworth and Thor? 
> 
> Yuuuuuup.

“Is that-” K trails off, squinting, and Proko looks up from his phone to track K’s gaze across the room, following it all the way to the bar where a big blonde smokeshow of a bear is heartily drinking a huge fucking  _ stein  _ of beer like this is some  _ tavern  _ and not a  _ club.  _ He’s wearing  _ plaid.  _ He looks so out of place amid the riotous neon and slick pleather of  their fellow clubgoers that it’s almost comical.

For a second, Proko thinks K is only pointing him out for that reason— comedy. He’s all ready to drawl back something bitchy and then take a picture of the guy for his Snapchat when it registers. 

When  _ he  _ registers. 

“By the _ —“   _ K breathes, eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas looking at a lifesize Transformer on their own fucking  _ front lawn.  _ That’s what it feels like— giddy, childlike awe. 

And then, of course, flushing and visceral  _ lust.  _

“K,” Proko says, and watches his lips curl into a Grinchlike smile, all bone-white teeth and soft pink lips. Not unlike the same expression he used to get back at Aglionby, when there was a chance for vandalism, mayhem, and misdemeanor assault. 

“He looks like something out of a  _ dream,  _ Proko,” K murmurs, the highest praise that someone like Joseph Kavinsky can mete out.  _ Someone like Joseph Kavinsky,  _ of course, meaning  _ a young tornado chock full of magic and fury and lust.  _

“Oh my  _ god,”  _ Proko mumbles, but follows willingly enough when K stands, unfolding himself sinuously from the vinyl booth seat and cocking his hips with every step. He looks like walking sex. He looks like  _ murder.  _ He looks utterly unreal with his diamond chain flashing around his neck and his skin gone blue and red from the strobe lights, eyelashes a long dark shadow against his cheeks. 

Proko is hard in his jeans and makes no move to hide it, to cover up his adoration. His  _ intent.  _ He just follows K, because he has been following K since they met and he will not stop now. Not for anything. 

(He is not sure that he could.)

K makes a beeline straight for where Thor, the  _ god of fucking thunder,  _ is leaning up against the bar, laughing at something someone is saying, drinking the last of his frankly  _ gigantic _ flagon of booze. 

Proko is not sure what K says, when he leans into Thor’s space daringly. Later, he won’t even dare to ask. Whatever it is, it makes the god, the  _ Avenger,  _ startle with sudden sharpness, eyes going from  _ easygoing camaraderie _ to  _ animalistic consideration.  _ It’s inhumanely hot. 

(Literally.)

K says something else, motions for the bartender to bring a whole bottle of top-shelf vodka, tips his chin back towards Proko so that Thor looks over K’s shoulder, right at him. 

His eyes are very, very blue. His gaze is assessing, and misses nothing. 

Somehow this turns into them all three leaving together, piling into the back of an Uber and going back to the apartment that K and Proko share in the UES, where their only real neighbors are a couple of ancient spinsters who wear their diamonds when they walk their yappy little dogs. 

(Technically it’s Proko’s apartment, handed down to him by his grandmother, who had an ongoing twenty-year feud with the women, Bunny Del Monaco and Tabitha Babcock, after they all moved in at once when their husbands died. Widows, the three of them, and bitter enemies til the end. Proko still sucks his teeth and glares at them when he sees them, out of respect for his  _ baba _ . K thinks he’s ridiculous, but gamely flips them off when he’s getting their mail from the box in the lobby.) 

Thor, the  _ actual god of thunder,  _ Earth’s Mightiest Hero, literally the hottest man that Proko has ever laid his eyes upon, looks hilarious in their front entryway, huge and broad and grizzled and  _ fine as fuck.  _

“Just,” Proko says, a bit nonsensically, and gets down on his knees right there with the front door open. He opens up Thor, King of New Asgard’s jeans and can’t even fucking breathe, because his cock is as terribly gorgeous and  _ large  _ as the rest of him. “Like, let me just—“ and then it’s in his mouth, because Proko never met a challenge he couldn’t rise to. 

A harsh hand twists into his hair, shoves him further down, and he moans because he knows that hand. He knows that hand and he knows the voice above him saying  _ you’re such a fucking slut, Ilyusha,  _ fond and cruel all at once. Proko moans, encouragingly. It’s not his fault, anyway— K is the one who made him this way. Insatiable. 

(Just one of K’s many  _ improvements.)  _

“Oh,  _ ást,”  _ Thor moans throatily, and strokes Proko’s hair in a sharp contrast to K’s pulling. He is gentle, for all that Proko knows he could crush his skull with one sharp movement of his dinnerplate-sized hands. It sends heat to his belly, this novelty of gentleness from someone who does not  _ have  _ to be gentle. Proko can take roughness. Proko would  _ gleefully  _ take roughness. 

Roughness is not what Thor, walking Viking dreamboat, is apparently in the mood for tonight. 

Proko is, as before stated, game for whatever Thor  _ is  _ in the mood for. 

K seems to have other plans, though, and hauls him off of Thor’s cock, drags him to his feet and shoves him face-first into the wall, slamming the door closed with his free hand. Proko goes, fizzy with arousal and dizzy with the liquor and coke he’d imbibed at the club. 

K says something, behind him. Proko doesn’t catch it, his blood rushing and thundering in his ears. K shoves a couple fingers into his mouth, stirs him to attention. He catches what K is saying, then. “Go get on the bed. Take your fucking pants off.” He says it sharply, the way he used to talk to the people he’d fuck in front of Proko back at Aglionby, a tone that left no room for wondering who, exactly, was in charge. 

Proko tries to move, to follow, to obey, but K  _ isn’t talking to him.  _

K is, in fact, talking to  _ Thor,  _ the  _ god,  _ who only chuckles lowly in  _ kingly amusement  _ and does as he’s told. 

Later, after K has had his fill of watching from the corner while Proko bounces, blind and dumb and stuffed fucking  _ full,  _ on  _ Thor Odinson’s royal cock,  _ he stands and strips off his own clothes, until he is a vision at the foot of the bed, long-limbed and pale-skinned and dark-haired. It makes Thor groan, makes him sit up and wrap himself around Proko’s back, breathing heavily, straining to keep his touches  _ gentle.  _

Proko gasps, and gasps, and gasps. It feels so good, hot and close and  _ full;  _ it feels like he’s going to start spilling gold coins out of his mouth, like his fingertips are going to start leaving metallic streaks upon everything he touches, like he is going to burn up from the inside out. 

“K,” he groans,  _ begging.  _ “K, K, please—“ 

“Yes,  _ K,”  _ Thor rumbles in his ear, sounding faraway, sounding like he means to say something else.  _ “Please.” _

The air crackles, reeking of ozone and iron; K’s eyes flash, sudden and only for a second, scarlet instead of celery, rich and cold. Everything is cold, and then K’s hands are upon his skin and Proko yells, out of his fucking mind with it. 

“Dearest,” K whispers against his mouth in Russian, the only language he will speak such sweetness in. “Ilyusha.” 

“Come now,” Thor says, impossibly also in Russian. The language gives his churchbell voice a sepulchral edge; Proko arches and  _ does,  _ vision blacking out and mouth open, lungs emptying, vocal chords grinding together. 

“Shh,” K says, through the static whiteout that comes over him, and moves him with almost-gentle hands. “Sleep,” K whispers, magic on his tongue, and Proko does. 

Proko comes back to himself alone in bed; he creeps to the door on silent feet, avoiding every squeaky floorboard with expertise. He is a ghost, after all. A glorified ghost, but a ghost all the same. He can be quiet when he wants to. 

“—come  _ home,”  _ Thor is saying, low and urgent in the darkened entryway. K is leaning in close to him, so terribly close. His face is cold and sharp-featured and alien in the darkness. He is, as always, horribly beautiful. 

“Ah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” K murmurs, lilting. All half-lidded eyes and mocking smile. 

_ “Loki—“  _ Thor says, and then K is turning around abruptly, predator-pale eyes finding Proko’s form easily in the dark. 

“Hey babe, you back with us?” He laughs, and sounds again like the partyboy devil Proko knows (and loves, helplessly, despite all sense and reason.) 

“I want blini,” Proko says, makes his voice petulant as he wraps his arms around K, presses his naked skin to K’s half-dressed form. He cuts his eyes at Thor, and feels possessive and terrible in the pit of his stomach. Makes it clear that it’s not an invitation. 

K laughs, amused and unfooled by Proko’s bratty proprietariness but willing to play along for any number of reasons. He skims a nimble hand down Proko’s back, toys with him where he’s wet and open and still sensitive. 

“Thanks for the fun, Thor.” K says, careless and  _ mean.  _ He lays a kiss on Proko’s shoulder and laughs when the door slams shut, finality and fury and grief all in one gesture. 

“Blini,” Proko reminds K, but lets himself be manhandled over the arm of the couch, his face pressing into pale pink velvet that smells like stale pot smoke and his grandmother’s perfume and dust. It reminds him of a funeral home. 

Still, he moans and opens up his thighs greedily, savagely glad. 

_ Loki,  _ he mouths into the upholstery, trying it out, and tucks the name into the furthest recesses of his chest, where it will be safe. 

Where it will be  _ his.  _

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
